


The Art of Teaching

by AidaRonan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Biting, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Bodily Fluids, Dom Steve Rogers, Explicit Consent, Indulgent Filth, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Object Insertion, Ransom is a needy sub we all know it, Ransom's praise kink, Rimming, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:01:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22415941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AidaRonan/pseuds/AidaRonan
Summary: It starts—well, it doesn’t matter how the book starts—all that matters is this chapter, and this chapter begins with a man who wears Steve’s face, kneeling on the carpet in their living room.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Ransom Drysdale, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Ransom Drysdale, Steve Rogers/Ransom Drysdale
Comments: 39
Kudos: 301





	The Art of Teaching

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fadefilter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadefilter/gifts).



> For Nabu, who wanted Bucky/Steve/Ransom, amongst other things. 
> 
> This was... a lot of fun. lol

There is a strip of silk tied over Bucky’s eyes, and he cannot tell which mouth is which anymore. All there is is heat and wetness. A suckle here. A nip there. And fire, fire slick and moving on him until he gasps open-mouthed into the air.

It starts—well, it doesn’t matter how the book starts—all that matters is this chapter, and this chapter begins with a man who wears Steve’s face, kneeling on the carpet in their living room. The differences in his and Steve’s appearances are subtle. Steve has a beard these days, a honey-auburn thing that leaves raw red skin on Bucky’s chest and chin and everywhere it touches. This man is clean shaven. He has, of course, far less muscle than Steve, though he’s not scrawny by any means. When he sets his jaw, it’s miles from how Steve does it, more caustic, more dangerous. Less like the kind of dangerous Steve and Bucky saw in their adversaries pre-retirement. More like a feral cat, ready always to bite the hand that feeds it, too scared to realize that hand is only trying to help.

The man has a tattoo as well, though they don’t know it until later, as it’s tucked away on the delicate flesh of his inner thigh. A shitty little bit of black script in poorly translated Mandarin that Bucky’s sure was meant to say, “suck it.”

The chapter involving the man with Steve’s face kicks off with Steve on his feet, taking this kneeling man by the chin, and dropping his voice low in that way that crawls down Bucky’s spine and makes his insides twist with want.

“We could teach you a lesson, Ransom,” Steve says. “If you’re willing to learn it.”

Ransom stares up at him, defiant, and then with a single brush of Steve’s thumb across his chin, he seems to deflate. He inclines his head just so as an answer, his long lashes fluttering above his cheeks like moths dancing to the rhythm of firelight.

“Not good enough,” Bucky says. Usually he’s content to let Steve give the orders, but he wants to hear this part. He wants to be sure. “Use your words. Christ knows you got plenty.”

Bucky’s enhanced hearing catches the slightest hitch in Ransom’s breathing and then,

“Yes. I’m willing.”

“Good,” Steve says. “Stand up.”

Ransom gets to his feet with the sort of grace that comes from a childhood of being force-fed manners and the concepts of what represents good breeding. Bucky slides down onto the overly plush sofa, sitting on the edge so that it doesn’t swallow him whole.

In front of him, Steve pulls off Ransom’s rich brown jacket, revealing an artfully distressed cream sweater underneath. Steve takes his time undressing him, circling Ransom slowly, and Bucky can feel the artist in Steve’s brain deciding which order of removal would make for the prettiest pictures.

The sweater will be the first casualty apparently, and Ransom is pliant, letting Steve pull it up and over his head. Underneath, there is another shirt—a thin white cotton tee through which Ransom’s nipples are visible. Steve makes another circle, pausing to dip his lips into the spot behind Ransom’s ear, his eyes on Bucky the entire time he mouths the skin there.

Bucky never got to see one of Steve’s USO stunts before he slingshotted himself into being Captain America proper, but he’s pretty damn sure this is a much better performance. He can think of a few other soldiers in the 107th who would’ve agreed.

To elevate this two-man show, Steve rakes his beard along the back of Ransom’s neck and slides his lips behind the other ear. Ransom’s lips part, his pink tongue darting out to wet them. Bucky’s eyes land on the pulse point in Ransom’s throat, beating like a hummingbird’s beneath his skin.

Bucky shifts on the sofa and Ransom watches him do it.

Another shuddering breath escapes Ransom’s chest when Steve’s fingers skirt up under the hem of his shirt. And hell, Bucky doesn’t like the guy all that much when he’s talking, but he still can’t help but wonder when it was the last time someone touched him. Bucky and Steve can barely keep their hands off each other from one day to the next, too afraid even after many years of peace that their time is limited. But Ransom. Ransom seems like he’s starving.

Bucky’s suspicions are confirmed when Steve presses himself against Ransom’s back and runs a bare hand down his chest and torso, clearly meaning to end at the button of Ransom’s charcoal slacks. He doesn’t make it though, because Ransom starts to droop toward the floor and Steve has to catch him.

“Fuck,” Ransom breathes, and Steve mutters an admonishment low in his ear.

“No you don’t.” Steve punctuates this statement with a nip of teeth on the shell of Ransom’s ear. Then his hand starts its slide again, moving between Ransom’s collarbones, then dipping down the valley of his pectorals. Beneath those, Ransom doesn’t have a six pack or any other number, but his stomach is still flat and toned. Steve’s hand rakes sensually over large planes of muscle.

Ransom’s pants are undone with a few skillful movements—years of undressing Bucky in everything from wool trousers to tactical pants culminating in not even a second of awkwardness. Outside button, hidden inside button, zipper. Steve shoves them down. Underneath, Ransom’s underwear is tight and black, everything beneath the fabric painfully obvious.

Slipping his thumbs beneath the elastic waist, Steve removes the final thin barrier between Bucky’s imagination and Bucky’s reality. At that, Steve gives up his slow, purposeful aided striptease in favor of efficiency. Within a minute, Ransom stands nude in the center of their living room—like a statue of Steve that someone did from memory alone. A few discrepancies, but mostly. Mostly.

“Back on your knees,” Steve says, and Ransom complies, sliding down onto the carpet.

Steve joins Bucky on the sofa now, perching next to him.

“Not everything’s the same, huh?” Bucky says, his eyes on Ransom’s cock. It’s full and pink at the tip, a little smaller than Steve’s, a little thinner too, but still tantalizing enough to look at it. It’s missing that ever-so-slight curvature that Steve’s has as well, and is cut where Steve’s isn’t.

“Guess not.” Steve slides his fingers around Bucky’s jaw, pulling his eyes to him before closing the distance between their lips. For a few moments, Bucky forgets everyone who isn’t Steve, Ransom’s quiet breaths fading into the white noise of the refrigerator running in the kitchen and the city moving, always moving, beyond the walls.

Steve doesn’t stop kissing him until Bucky’s lips and chin are burning. It’ll fade quickly as always, but for now, Bucky relishes it, his chest rising and falling in heavy breaths.

“Ransom,” Steve says, turning toward their strange houseguest. “C’mere.”

Ransom starts to get to his feet again when Steve says “no, not like that,” and he sinks back to the floor, crawling across the carpet and stopping at their feet.

“Bucky.” Steve looks at him and Bucky can tell by the tone of Steve’s voice that it’s his turn for an order. He waits, the fingers on his right hand twitching in anticipation. The tiniest whir of machinery travels down his left side. “Take off your clothes for me,” Steve says.

Bucky stands, eyes flitting from Steve to Ransom, who is looking on with definite interest now. If Bucky wasn’t already hard, well, two sets of familiar blue eyes looking at him like that would do it.

He doesn’t know where to look, pulling off his shirt which earns him another wetting of lips from Ransom. Steve, meanwhile, shifts to lounge against the arm of the couch, keeping Bucky in view, one of his hands falling to palm lewdly at his crotch.

Bucky watches that motion while he works his dark jeans down, folding them twice and tossing them on the coffee table. In his periphery, he catches Ransom’s little glance at his own clothes, left strewn about on the floor wherever Steve let them drop.

“Go on, Buck,” Steve says. “Let me see how hard you are.”

With the tiniest smile thrown at Steve, so small that only Steve would recognize it, Bucky pulls off his own underwear. He’s put on some weight since they retired, his body similar now to how it was when he was making a little pocket of a life in Romania. Bucky’s thick with muscle from casual training and playful spars with Steve (spars that more than half the time lead to playful sex). Plus there’s the fact that Bucky’s finally been able to eat as much as his metabolism requires, and maybe a little more. Who’s counting?

He knows Steve likes the way he looks nude, so he watches Ransom’s reactions instead. His eyes start on Bucky’s, then slowly rake their way down his hairy chest and belly. Then lower still. Ransom takes his time on the way back up also, as though there’s no rush in how long he has to look at him. When he finally meets Bucky’s eyes again, he couples it with the littlest quirk of his eyebrow and the slightest smirk on his lips.

“Like what you see?” Steve asks, and Ransom’s smirk widens.

“Yes,” he answers. “Yes, I do.”

“Good.” Steve sits up slightly, letting his hand slide off his lap, his hard cock pressing into the fabric of his own dark jeans. “Bucky, kneel on the couch, facing the wall.”

Bucky rotates away from Ransom, sliding his knees onto the firmer edge of the sofa and resting his chest and arms against the back of it.

“Spread your thighs a little wider,” Steve says, and Bucky complies, easing them apart, his body dipping lower and lower, until his cock is resting against the textured upholstery.

“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you want I want,” Steve says, and Bucky knows who he’s addressing. “But I’m sure you want me to tell you anyway, don’t you?”

No answer from Ransom. Just the slightest uptick in his heart rate, and Bucky’s sure Steve can hear it too.

“Do you see that pretty pink hole in front of you, Ransom?” Steve’s voice is low again, crawling like a summer evening across Bucky’s skin, sultry and warm. “It’s the best hole in all of New York, has been for almost a century now. Now you, Ransom, you’re gonna put your mouth on that hole with the reverence that it deserves, and you’re gonna lick it until it’s soaking, until I can see how shiny and wet it is from all the way over here. You,” Steve pauses, “are gonna lick it until I tell you you can stop. Now do what I want you to and show him how pretty you really think he is.”

Bucky curls both hands around the back of the sofa, a move that is part anticipation and part response. Leaning against the cushy fabric, he turns his head to focus on Steve, who is watching very intently.

He feels Ransom’s hands first, warm against his outer thighs. Then he feels a breath, whispering across his skin. Wetness follows, Ransom’s tongue pressing slowly against Bucky’s opening, making Bucky shudder, his hips dropping to press into the touch.

“Very good,” Steve says, and in their few points of contact, Bucky can feel Ransom quiver. Ransom keeps licking. No two swipes of his tongue feel the same, not in a row anyway. There are the full flat, wet licks to and fro. There are sloppy slides down Bucky’s perineum then back again. There are times when he makes his tongue into a point and circles it slowly around the rim clockwise, then counter, leaving Bucky with the sensation that every single nerve he has there has gotten its turn.

As instructed, he gets Bucky so very wet, leaving behind trails of saliva so thick that they drip down onto the couch.

Steve keeps watch the whole time, his eyes moving from watching Ransom as he works to watching Bucky react. Sometimes, Bucky’s eyes flutter shut to Steve focused on his ass only to open again to Steve’s gaze boring into him, all heat and dilated pupils.

Steve is so hard, wetness starting to bloom on the front of his jeans. Bucky is so hard too, his cock aching and leaking. They’re going to have to get the couch cushions cleaned. Again.

“That’ll do, Ransom,” Steve says after some time, getting up off the couch. Where Ransom has the practiced grace of privilege, Steve has his own kind of fluidity of motion that comes from the fighter who lives, always, somewhere beneath his skin. “Bucky, you can get comfortable. However you want as long as it’s forward facing.”

Steve leaves the living room, and Bucky turns his body, careful not to kick Ransom in the nose. After some consideration, he chooses to sit on the couch, letting the cushions have him this time since they’ve already been defiled anyway. In front of him, Ransom is still on his knees. Bucky realizes it would be easy to tell him to suck him off. Ransom would do it too.

But Steve decides when Bucky gets touched and what part Ransom plays in it, at least in this little game.

“You can touch yourself except for your cock or your ass,” Bucky says instead, because that’s something he can enjoy and watch without taking any of Steve’s thunder. With a slight upward pull of his lips, Ransom moves his hands to his chest, rubbing them down the front of his body and back up. His fingertips find his own nipples, thumbnails raking across them in a way that has Ransom releasing pretty little gasps into the air.

“Guess you found a way to entertain yourself.” Steve is back. There’s a strip of silk hanging over the side of his fist and Bucky knows what’s inside of it before Steve opens his fingers. He just isn’t sure yet who Steve is going to use it on until Steve slides onto the couch beside Bucky and gives him a soft smile.

“Hey, Buck.”

No matter how many fun games they play and how far they choose to take them when they do, there’s always a moment somewhere in their sex when Steve can’t help but go tender-soft, and when that happens, Bucky always falls right down with him.

“Hey,” Bucky answers warmly, looking down at Steve’s hands where he holds the blindfold out like an offering.

“Lean forward for me,” Steve says, and Bucky tilts his head in Steve’s direction, already shutting his eyes. Bucky feels the gentlest touch on his crown first, Steve planting a kiss there, and then the satiny fabric presses against his eyes, darkening out the world.

The first thing that catches Bucky’s focus post-blindfold is rustling. Rustling that has to be Steve getting undressed.

Whatever orders he’s giving Ransom, he’s giving them without words. Bucky can hear movement—the barely-there sound of limbs moving, the whisper of something swishing across the carpet.

Warmth. There are four hands wrapping around his ankles and moving up his calves. A mouth plants a kiss on one of his inner thighs. Another bites down on the skin over his hip bone. The hands keep moving, snaking and weaving through one another on his stomach and chest. Ransom—it has to be Ransom—rakes blunt nails down the center of Bucky’s body and down the hairy fat on his torso. Then the hands start moving in a slalom pattern again, and Bucky forgets that he ever had even one of them labeled.

“Christ,” Bucky gasps, mouths sliding hot and wet across his skin, trailing warmth behind them like comet tails. And then they stop. He knows it’s Steve who picks him up, his arms sliding behind Bucky’s knees and around his back to lift him with ease. He expects Steve to carry him to the bedroom, but he doesn’t, and the lack of familiar twists and turns through the apartment confuses him.

“Sorry for the cold,” Steve says, and then he sets Bucky down on a cool surface that makes him cringe momentarily before it starts to warm beneath his skin. For a few seconds, Bucky is disoriented, going through his mental catalog of the surfaces in their home. And then he focuses on the hum of the refrigerator, louder now.

“Really, Steve?” Bucky asks, now very aware that he’s laid out on the kitchen island like Sunday brunch.

“That’s good, Ransom. Thank you,” Steve says, and then someone slides one of the throw pillows from the couch up under Bucky’s head. It’s Steve. His fingers trailing lovingly down the side of Bucky’s neck are a dead giveaway.

The scooting of furniture on tile from multiple directions. The pop of a bottle.

A hand wraps around Bucky’s cock firmly, holding it steady. A finger presses slick and wet against his hole at the same time that someone’s mouth envelops him.

The world fuzzes out. Bucky is no longer in New York or even on Earth for that matter. He is traveling through space, every pinprick of starlight burning against him, felt more than it is seen.

The mouth is so hot, so wet, so good at what it’s doing. Licks here, flicks of a tongue there, a dip into Bucky’s slit for a taste. A hand—Steve’s—slaps Bucky’s thighs farther apart, but that doesn’t mean it belongs to the same person whose finger is circling Bucky’s hole, occasionally dipping in to the first knuckle.

Bucky should know. He should know who’s touching him where, and he thinks if he actually focused he probably would know. Definitely would know. But the fun of this is that he doesn’t have to focus, that he can lose himself in the feeling.

There is so very much being done to him at once.

The mouth pulls away and moves up his torso, accompanied by the quiet noise of bare feet on tile—sticking just a bit with every step. The mouth moves to Bucky’s chest, a tongue circling his nipple. Then there are teeth, sinking in right as the finger does the same.

Bucky gasps aloud in his kitchen. For a while, his world is a hand between his legs, moving in and out of him, working circles of pressure like they are conducting a symphony, the current selection building slowly toward an inevitable crescendo.

The lips on him suck one nipple and then the other, then leave bite marks all over his chest and stomach.

It all stops again like the break in a storm. Bucky lies on the island and trembles.

A kitchen drawer opens and shuts. A bottle pops again.

There’s something pressing into him, cold for a moment like the island, but warming quick. He doesn’t know what. He doesn’t have time to think about it because there are two mouths now on either side of his cock, moving up and down in tandem.

“Oh fuck.” Bucky writhes, his brain almost whiting out when both their tongues swipe over the head of his erection at once. Deeper. Whatever’s in him presses deeper, stretching him slowly. Bigger than a finger. Smaller than Steve.

One mouth moves to his balls and sucks on them one at a time while saliva drips off onto the counter. The other mouth takes him all the way into their throat without even the hint of a gag. Bucky thinks that this is what all those poets in history writing their visions of paradise must have been talking about.

Whatever’s being pushed inside of him reaches its limit, someone holding it there steady so it doesn’t slip out again. The two mouths make their way back up and down again, tongues swirling across once more, one dipping into his slit, the other flicking at his frenulum.

There are noises in the kitchen. Slick, wet sounds and quiet hums that vibrate through Bucky’s veins. But there are other ones too. Loud gasps and groans and, _oh_. Bucky is making those noises. They’re his.

Inside of him, the object starts to move, slow at first. Out until he’s almost empty, then back in again. In, out, in. 

“Jesus H…” Bucky trails off with a moan, because they’re both sucking on the head of his cock together, like the two mouths have somehow merged and he cannot tell where one set of lips becomes another.

“That’s it, Bucky,” Steve says, and for a fleeting moment he knows which mouth is whose, and Ransom is taking him in as deep as he physically can fit him while Steve says softly, “just let it feel good.”

Inside of him, something moves faster, the hand that holds it tilting it just so and fucking him with it hard. Two mouths again—two tongues and four lips. He loses track again quickly, his body trying to move into every single touch at once. He gasps up at the ceiling, the haze of the light fixture over the island bleeding in around the edges of the blindfold. Like a sunrise just starting to color the horizon pale gold.

“Close. I’m- Fuck.” Bucky whines softly as everything goes still. Whatever was inside of him is pulled free and dropped unceremoniously onto the floor.

“C’mere,” Steve says, with an edge of aggression that he sometimes gets when sparring turns to fucking. “There you go, Ransom. Now eat his ass like a good boy.”

Ransom’s buries his face back between Bucky’s cheeks, only now there’s less technique. He eats Bucky out with a feeling of desperation, like he requested him as his last meal, his mouth hungry and sloppy and wet.

Bucky hears the third pop of a bottle top, followed soon after by Ransom gasping and groaning against Bucky’s skin, the hum of it buzzing up Bucky’s spine.

Bucky doesn’t know how long it lasts, only that he’s seconds from begging when Ransom pulls away and Steve hooks Bucky behind both knees, yanking him almost all the way to the edge of the island.

“Ransom, hop up.”

Bucky’s brows furrow under the blindfold, the fabric now wet and sticky with sweat. There’s the slide of furniture again, and a quiet grunt, and then a weight settles onto Bucky’s lower belly and he can feel the warmth of legs bracketing his hips.

When Ransom sinks down onto him—delicate and slow—Bucky lets out a strangled sound.

“Can I kiss him?” Ransom pants, still sinking down, down, down.

“If he doesn’t mind,” Steve says.

Bucky can feel Ransom’s breath on his cheek when he says, “Can I?”

“Yeah,” Bucky chokes out, because Ransom is starting to rock his hips, moving himself on Bucky’s cock. And Bucky should’ve expected Ransom to kiss nothing like Steve, but he’s so used to Steve’s mouth on his that anyone else’s style would be jarring. There’s an aggression to it at first, like Ransom’s trying to prove something to someone but doesn’t know what it is. It melts away though when Bucky wraps his hand around the back of his neck. Quickly, it shifts into a dance where Ransom clearly wants someone else to lead.

Bucky always was a good dancer. Even if he’s usually happy to wrap his arms around Steve and follow, he still leads sometimes, and he still remembers how. With both hands, he grabs hold of Ransom’s hips, careful not to grip too tight with the left. Holding Ransom steady, Bucky thrusts his hips up, fucking up into him until Ransom’s gasping in his mouth, until Steve’s hands snake in to stop his motions. 

Why? Bucky’s brain barely has time to finish forming the thought and then he feels the head of Steve’s cock against him, Steve’s strong arms dragging him even farther toward the edge of the island and pulling Ransom along for the ride by proxy.

Ransom’s weight increases on Bucky’s chest and torso. He’s either getting out of Steve’s way or Steve’s making him. Bucky can almost picture Steve’s large hand on Ransom’s back, shoving him forward.

Bucky can’t kiss back for several seconds, his entire world too much to contemplate. It’s so easy for Steve to slide in after everything, so easy for him to bury himself inside, tearing a gasping breath from Bucky’s mouth while he pushes in all the way.

Then nothing. Just stillness and heavy breathing and the refrigerator and the city.

A loud smack of flesh on flesh breaks the quiet, and Ransom moans against Bucky’s lips, the vibrations a tickle against them.

“You’re not being a very good boy right now, Ransom,” Steve says. “There’s a cock in your ass attached to a gorgeous boy. Fuck him like you mean it.”

Ransom rocks, pulling his body on and off of Bucky’s length.

“There you go,” Steve says, while Bucky whispers, “That’s it, Ransom,” all for the feeling of Ransom shuddering in his arms. More rocking, Ransom kissing Bucky sloppy and open-mouthed, moaning into the large cavern formed by their mouths. At the edge of the island, Steve finds and matches the motion of Ransom’s body, his thrusts an echo of that rhythm.

Bucky turns his face and buries it in Ransom’s damp neck.

“Oh fuck. Oh Christ.” He presses his mouth against Ransom’s skin to muffle a particularly loud cry, and then he sucks a mark there, knowing that unlike when he does it to Steve, this one’ll stay. Proof that they had him.

Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers were here and they defiled the fuck out of it.

“I can’t,” Bucky says, his whole body alight with it all. Somewhere toward the back of the orchestra pit, the drums are beating faster, louder. “Steve.”

“Ask.”

“I can’t either,” Ransom pants, before Bucky can form another word. His cock slides slick across Bucky’s belly with every rock of his hips.

“Absolutely not,” Steve says, firm. “If you finish before Bucky, I’m pulling out and letting him fuck you ‘til you cry.”

“Please,” Ransom asks, whisper soft. But he’s not talking to Steve. He’s asking Bucky. No, not asking. Begging. He’s begging Bucky to come so he can follow.

What would it say about the state of Bucky’s manners if he didn’t oblige?

“Stevie,” Bucky gasps, his cheek rubbing against Ransom’s, his whole world so warm and hot and bright despite the darkness over his eyes. “Stevie can I come?”

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve says hoarsely. “Yeah, you can.”

“Ransom.” Bucky manages to speak softly, though he knows Steve can hear it too. “I’m gonna come in you. That okay?” 

“Please,” Ransom says again, and he sounds even more broken this time—needy, desperate. Bucky lets his head fall back against the throw pillow and loses himself in what it feels like to fuck and get fucked in return, all at once.

So much. Too much. Just enough. The conductor gestures wildly with his baton.

Bucky trembles and groans when he comes, his hands flying to hold Ransom still while he empties deep into him, Steve fucking him through it with perfect rolls of his hips.

When Bucky goes still, Steve pulls out, and Bucky takes the opportunity to try another thrust or two into Ransom, making sure he’s empty and feeling the way his own come moves around him, the way it dribbles down the sides of his cock on its way out of Ransom’s hole.

“Ransom, untie his blindfold,” Steve says after a moment, and Bucky feels shaky hands reach behind his head, fumbling with the knots before giving up and just pulling the blindfold off over Bucky’s waves. The room is a haze while Bucky’s eyes adjust, and he blinks it away. Above him, Ransom is sweatier than Steve has been since he was smaller. His hair is a mess of damp, the shorter parts forming little spikes near his temples.

Bucky raises a hand and pushes Ransom’s hair back with his fingers. He’s amazed by just how warm it is, how much humidity is trapped between strands.

Ransom looks at Bucky’s lips and Bucky gives him a nod, accepting one more kiss before Ransom lets Bucky slide out of him, Steve wrapping his arms around Ransom’s middle and helping him off the counter. When Ransom’s feet land on the floor, Bucky watches come slide down the inside of his thigh over the tattoo.

Bucky shifts to sit on the edge of the counter, catching the cross breeze between the living room and the sun room that Steve uses as a studio.

“I wanna watch you suck Steve off,” Bucky says honestly, because he does. Because it feels like a fantasy he’s had a million times, even tif he never had it even once before he laid eyes on Ransom. His eyes move to Steve’s in question. Steve shrugs.

“You heard him.”

It doesn’t take long. Ransom seems to realize that his own orgasm hinges on this one, and Steve is always so easy after he’s been in Bucky anyway. A particularly deep deep throat does it, Steve grabbing onto Ransom’s hair and holding him there until Ransom sputters and pulls away, come dripping from his mouth onto the tile.

Remaining on his knees, Ransom licks his lips while Steve comes down enough to focus.

“You wanna do the honors or should I?” Steve asks, looking at Bucky. “Or should we make him do it himself?”

“I think he’s been good enough to choose.” Bucky emphasizes the word good, and Ransom releases a shaky exhale through his nose.

“There you go, Ransom. See what being a good boy gets you.” He takes hold of Ransom’s chin, his fingers digging into either cheek. “Pick your poison.”

A beat of silence, blue eyes sliding from one man to the other, and then, “Bucky?”

“You got it,” Bucky says, sliding off the counter and down onto the tile. “Hold him still for me, Stevie. His knees are already wobbly as it is.”

Steve helps Ransom up, then wraps his arms around him, keeping him steady.

“Come when you’re ready,” Steve says quietly, and Bucky’s got his mouth on Ransom for all of half a minute when he lets out a rough groan, shooting off on Bucky’s tongue. As predicted, Steve has to hold onto him to keep him from collapsing onto the floor, though when Ransom’s done and Bucky’s sucked out every drop, Steve does let him down slow, Ransom leaning against the kitchen island and panting heavily for a lot longer than either of them would need to.

Quietly, Steve fixes three glasses of water, handing two of them down to Bucky and Ransom on their respective patches of tile.

“You okay?” Steve asks Bucky, mouthing the words at him more than he actually speaks them. Bucky nods, then taps Ransom on the ankle.

“Come on,” Steve says, picking Ransom up off the tile and helping him to the bedroom where Steve deposits him in his and Bucky’s bed. Bucky follows, falling on the mattress next to their guest. When Ransom curls against his side, he doesn’t stop him. Steve doesn’t seem to mind.

“He’s still shaking,” Bucky says.

“Yeah, I know.” Steve disappears back to the kitchen and comes back with bread, strawberries, and whipped cream.

“I’ve got it,” Bucky says, popping a piece of strawberry into his own mouth before swiping his finger through the cream and pressing it to Ransom’s lips. “I learned from the best after all.”

“I’ll be back.”

Steve’s gone again, and Bucky gets Ransom to sit up and actually eat something before Steve returns with more water and a few wet cloths. They mop Ransom up together, and he curls up on the mattress next to them, nibbling on strawberries and watching while Steve cleans Bucky up lovingly and then, very quickly, turns a rag himself.

After that, they all three merge together, the ceiling fan on to stave off the heat of too many bodies. Bucky lies in the center of it all, his left side half on top of Steve with Ransom curled against his right.

For a while, it’s quiet. Or as quiet as anything can be in New York.

It’s Ransom, of course, who finally breaks the silence.

“So, how conceited am I if I actually got off on blowing a guy who looks like me?” Ransom asks. “Because I almost came right when Bucky said he wanted me to. Then again, I guess it could’ve been that Bucky was enjoying it so much.” A pause. “Sure, we’ll go with that.”

Bucky turns his head to look at Steve who looks back. He can almost hear the thoughts in Steve’s head, all the things he doesn’t say like, ‘Well, I’m the one who came in your mouth, pal’ and ‘Don’t we all kind of fuck ourselves all the time anyhow?'

Steve doesn’t say any of that though when he speaks.

“Ransom, you know part of the lesson we were teaching you was when to shut the hell up, right?”

On Bucky’s right, Ransom laughs, a huff of air through his nose that turns into a breathy chuckle.

“Well shit, old man.” Ransom adds a that’s-a-shame click of his tongue. “I guess you’ll both just have to try again.”

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone wants this information, Steve's orders when he stopped giving them aloud were done through finger pointing, gestures, and a lot of grabbing Ransom by the hair. 
> 
> As always, you can come find me on [Twitter.](https://twitter.com/BiStarBucky/status/1221365076747333632?s=20)


End file.
